


Page Turner

by Abitofwhimsy



Series: Peter Stories [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Peter Capaldi - Fandom, The Thick Of It, Twelve - Fandom
Genre: Don't Judge Me, F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Librarian - Freeform, Library, Mutual Masturbation, Mutually Unrequited, No Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, Peter Capaldi is a librarian, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Romance, School, Short One Shot, Smut, Underage - Freeform, library assistant, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 18:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14526654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abitofwhimsy/pseuds/Abitofwhimsy
Summary: Albert Page (Peter Capaldi) is a stern, no-nonsense librarian. Jane Easter is his seventeen-year-old assistant. And also the girl he secretly fancies. What happens when she learns his shocking secret?





	Page Turner

**Author's Note:**

> Random one-off with Peter Capaldi as a librarian, doing things a librarian *probably* shouldn't be doing in the library. Especially with an underage assistant within hearing-range.
> 
> (DISCLAIMER: To be clear, the librarian character in this story DOES have a romantic/sexual attraction to a minor – a 17yo girl to be exact. However, he does NOT act on it. Well, he does, but what I mean is, he doesn't actually engage in sexual relations with said minor, or make advanced on her in any way. He just kind of lusts after her, the way dirty old men do. I didn't tag this story with the p-word because I don't consider the librarian character to be a, well, p-word in context of this story. And we all know this is a 100% fictional story, so don't go getting the wrong idea about the actor inspired it. In other words: Creative liberties were taken. Please don't be offended, and please don't get the wrong impression. Thanks in advance!)

Solid silence and the odor of old dust. Motes swarm in the mellow dusk-light that streams in through the high angular windows. Below: high bookcases stand amidst tables and chairs, freeform shelves lined with books, and a few potted plants half-wilted with dehydration. The varnished wood sign hanging over the archway reads _Newton High Student Library._

This is the private domain of School librarian Albert Page, age fifty-six, never married.

It is also the part-time workplace of Newton High student Jane Easter, age seventeen, avid reader.

Regular hours run from 6am to 4pm, but today the library is open long after staff and students have gone home. Only Jane Easter remains, perky but bookish in her school uniform. Right now she’s lurking by the encyclopedia section with the rickety shelving-cart. Bored, she sorts books on the cart in a slow, repetitive cycle. Machine-like, blank-faced. A little wind-up librarian doing her pre-programmed task.

At one point she replaces a stack of textbooks on the adjacent shelf and pauses, noticing a dog-eared romance novel half-hidden behind a second-hand copy of _Biology And Reproduction_. She picks the novel up, flips through it, curiously at first but then realizing –

_Oh._

_–_ now eagerly skimming for the good parts.

Some pink comes into her cheeks. She smiles.

_What’s this? Why aren’t you working?_

The smile droops as she imagines Albert Page’s voice,  hissing coldly awake in her head.

_What’s that in your hand?_

What might the old school librarian say if he saw her here now?

_Show it to me._

How might he react if he were to come out of his office now and see her with a book full of –

_Filth! Filth and smut and – and –_

His voice crackles crisply in her head, all condemnation and disappointment.

_Pornography!_

A wonderful, terrifying growl, the r’s in _pornography_ rolling from his thin Scottish lips like angry marbles.

_Oh, I should have known better than to take_ **you** _on as my assistant._

So staunch.

_You’re nothing but a little deviant, aren’t you._

So proper.

_Just like your mother._

Such a prude.

_Nothing but a little deviant punk –_

Something catches Jane Easter’s ear. Slowly, she replaces the raunchy romance novel and stares down the aisle.

Is - Is someone _crying?_

Without thinking Jane crosses quickly to the front of the library and stands close against the dusty door of Albert Page's office. A thin sound comes from within. Jane leans her head against the cool wood to listen.

Rustle of paper, the squeak and scrape of a chair. Yes. Jane Easter thinks she can hear muffled crying.

Wait. No. Not crying.

Something else.

Intrigued, she crouches before the open door and peers in through the keyhole, feeling a little like Nancy Drew.

Albert Page’s office is a small space dimly lit by a single, antique Tiffany lamp. Jane can just make out a few pieces of silhouetted furniture: a bookcase, a desk, a chair. Her eyes widen. The light from the lamp glows redly on an ornate armchair, and on the narrow man occupying it. Albert Page is elegant, straight-backed as he sits, the lamp light reflecting off his wispy silver hair and the sleeves of his black jumper like the sheen of a pelt. He’s turned away from the door, his arms crossed. The back of the chair obscures his lower half, but Jane can make out his face just fine. His cheeks are dry –

_Not crying . . ._

_–_ and his eyes (blue as frost) are drifting shut, his thin face hardening into an expression of deep concentration.

Jane Easter watches with dawning realization as, slowly, inch by inch, one of Albert Page’s hands –

_The one he writes with the one he catalogues overdue books with –_

_–_ dips down into his lap. She hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper pulling open, and then a light rustling of fabric. Her face grows warm. She can’t see Albert Page’s hand, but she’s pretty sure she knows what it’s doing.

Dazed, she straitens and turns to retreat, but something makes her stop.

From the office, Albert Page – the strictest and sternest and most morally stolid of educational authority figures Jane Easter has ever encountered – lets out a single, long, raspy word that lasts until all his breath is spent. Then he inhales and does it again.

“Jane . . . Oh, Jane . . ."

Jane Easter’s mouth flattens.

_No._

Another low rumble from Page: “Please, Jane.”

She blinks in stunned silence.

 _Couldn’t be. It just_ couldn’t _be._

Suddenly she’s back against the door with her face pressed up against the keyhole. Peering in. A virgin still, but now a vouyer.

“Oh, Jane. . .”

She sees Page's arm moving, the redness of his face, how his mouth has fallen slackly open.

_No, he’s not really going to –_

“Please, suck it."

_While thinking about_ **_me?_ **

“Oh, Jane _._ ”

_Is he?_

“Jane.”

Jane Easter begins to feel like an intruder in the library. She wonders if she should leave. That would be the polite thing to do – leave and come back the next day and do her best to act as though she never saw Albert Page’s act of self-pleasure. But for whatever reason, she can’t bring herself to go. At seventeen, she’s had her share of lovers – all of them young, all of them inexperienced, all of them relatively immature. She’s seen half a dozen men (boys) get themselves off and found it mildly thrilling. But she's never seen an older man – especially a man as reserved and practical as Albert Page – in the throes of passion before.

It's not just thrilling. _It's exciting._

Compelled to see more, Jane Easter puts a careful hand on the doorknob, and quietly twists it. The click of the jam seems absurdly loud to her, but Albert Page is too caught up in his activities to notice. The door slides open a crack, and Jane Easter sticks her head in to get a better look.

At the same time, Albert Page lets out another moan – an involuntary, surprisingly carnal sound.

Jane thinks, _None of the boys I’ve been with have_ ever _moaned like that, not even when I had their cocks in my mouth._

More, breathless whispering from Page: "Please, Jane . . . Need you . . . So good . . ."

Jane inches the door open and stares in at him – studying the little movements of his arm, the tensing muscles in his neck, the flush on his face, the dampness of his hair. Vaguely she thinks _I should be disgusted by this, Mr. Page is old enough to be my father_. But all she feels is smug pride. It’s a tremendous ego-boost to know that the mere thought of her, as a mental figment alone, can cause such an impassioned reaction in such a refined and studious man.

_And_ **_what_ ** _a reaction. Holy_ **_shit_ ** _._

Albert Page’s stifled cries are slowly escalating in strength and volume. Each one makes Jane Easter shiver slightly where she stands.

An urgent puff from Page: “Jane . . . Oh, Jane . . . “  

The sound of her name, spoken in that rough Scottish brogue, seems suddenly enough to get her off. She watches Page’s arm jerk behind the chair, awkwardly at first and then faster, gaining speed, now establishing a rhythm. And all the time Page’s voice is getting deeper, more guttural, reverberating throughout the tight space of the office.

Captivated by the sound, Jane barely notices herself shuffling the door further open.

“Jane . . ." Now Page’s hips are starting to flutter. “Jane, god . . ." 

 _Yes_ , Jane thinks without meaning to, unconsciously summoning up how might taste in her mouth - salty sweat and pulsing warmth.

Albert Page mewls desperately from behind the chair, interspersing each labored breath with a variety of throaty grunts. The sight of him makes Jane Easter’s head swim. Her feet silently carry her the rest of the way over the threshold, until all at once she’s standing beside the armchair, leaning over him, watching his tongue dart out to lick his lips in glorious close-up, his right hand furiously fisting his engorged cock.

 _Yes_ , she thinks again, wanting suddenly to reach out, to touch, to feel the silky smoothness of him, to stroke him and tug him until he's crying out like a humiliated schoolboy.

Without warning he moves, shifting in the chair, arching up to meet each thrust of his slender hand, and the reality of what he's doing, of what _she's doing_ , comes crashing down on Jane Easter like an avalanche.

She slips quickly and quietly back out of the office before Page has the chance to notice her, her hand on the knob, noiseless as she closes it, her heart in her mouth, her fingers trembling. As the jam clicks home she hears a small frenzy of expended movement from behind the door. More clothing rustling, then thick slapping sounds and labored breathing. It’s as if Albert Page is frantically burrowing damp dirt with his hands behind the door, but she knows better.

_He's in there right now –_

From behind the door comes a quiet string of babbled nonsense.

"Jane, yes, Jane, keep going, don't stop, you're so beautiful, just like your mother, oh, Jane, please,  _don't stop_ . . ."

_He's in there right now –_

Jane Easter tries to move away from the door but her feet seem rooted to the ground. She claps her hands over her ears.

_He's in there right now. Jerking off to you._

No, she isn't going to think about it. Of course, the more she tries to block her thoughts, the more persistent and intrusive they become.

_He's in there right now, that clever old man, with his big strong cock in his hands, jerking off to_ **_you_ ** _._

An urgent whine. Page is close to finishing. Jane can tell. She leans back against the door, on the verge of collapsing, held up only by a feeling of dizzying suspension.

She's flabbergasted. Not because it’s wrong, or sick. But because she's enjoying this. Because she wants to – to –

_Join in?_

She contemplates retreating to the lavatory down the hall to find release. Yes, she can get off quickly and quietly there, in the cramped white cubicle where the bad girls smoke during study hall, and no one would ever know.

Page is still whining in his office. He's almost there.

Jane bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut. The lavatory suddenly seems a million miles away.

Page: whining, warbling, tapering off now. Her name on his lips like a prayer.

"Jane!"

She can't take it anymore. She needs relief, something to take the edge off – if only so she could regain some semblance of sanity. Carefully, she lowers her skirt and slides a hand down her front, stopping just long enough to ask herself – is this was really and truly what she wants? To hide herself away behind Albert Page's door just so she can palm herself through her panties and imagine what it would be like to kiss his thin, chapped lips and feel his aged body squirming against her? Does she want release that badly? Enough to risk retraining the humiliating memory of getting off to the thought of the school librarian in the middle of an empty library, all because he happened to be getting off to _her_?

No, she thinks with vague disgust. The idea alone reeks of desperation. And desperation, she knows, is not attractive.

But just then she can not help herself.

She lets her skirt drop to the floor and slips one finger past the elastic band of her cotton panties and into her slit, gathering her own wetness to run over the nub at the top, blatantly aware of (but determined to remain oblivious to) what she is doing.

_There's no harm in it really no harm in it he's getting off to you so you're allowed to get off to him too so there's no harm in it–_

The words circle in her head, reassuringly, even as Albert Page belts out a sudden, sharp howl behind the door. Jane's eyes fly open. She can practically see Page's toes curling in his shoes, can see him grunting and flailing slightly in the armchair. Can see the fresh splash of his seed as it spills over his hand. Sticky hot and sweet-smelling.

_He came for you._

With a small whimper Jane Easter slouches against the door and lets her thighs fall further apart.

_You made him come._

She slips her finger deep into herself and crooks it, grinding into her hand in short sharp jerks. She sees an image of how she must look in her mind (dirty, wanton, bad) and hastily pushes it aside. She refuses to feel guilty about doing this. Guilt is for the adults.

When she comes she bites down hard on her lip to keep from crying out. 

Silence from behind the office door. Silence in the library.

Jane Easter waits for her breathing to even out and her body to relax before she quietly hikes up her skirt and pads back down to the shelving cart.

When Albert Page emerges from his office some ten minutes later his cheeks are pink and his pupils pleasantly dilated from the act. He looks both refreshed, and wracked with guilt. He tells Jane Easter to go home in a noticeably hoarse, apologetic tone of voice. She holds his gaze for as long as she’s able to, knowing instinctually that he knows, that they both know, that they’re both somehow okay with it, despite the associated shame. Even more. She suspects that this - what they did together, apart - may very well have been the catalyst for something greater than the two of them, a concept she can't quite grasp the meaning of yet. But it seems senseless to ask him about it now. They’ll be time for that later. She's sure of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> (SECOND DISCLAIMER: Okay, so I left it open-ended, with the implication being that Page/Capaldi and the assistant character will likely wind up in a relationship. However, if I ever write more of this, odds are their relationship won't be consummated until after the assistant character turns 18. Because morality and legality and yeah you get the picture. Thanks for reading!)


End file.
